


Of The Old Blood

by CC_Writes



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bloodborne Fusion, Art, Blood, Crossover, Language, M/M, Monster Hunters, Monsters, Sexual Content, Tags to be added as needed, Violence, eldritch horror, oh boy is there blood its sort of the overall theme of the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13360629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC_Writes/pseuds/CC_Writes
Summary: A crossover that literally no one asked for, but I'm writing it any way because I like both these things! That and people were foolish enough to allow me to do it! I present the RvB Bloodborn AU!Simmons and Grif are two semi passable (ie shitty) hunters who receive a summons from The Healing Church, asking them to journey to the somewhat unknown city of Yharnam to participate in the Hunter's Dream. It's a pretty odd request to be sure but a hunt is a hunt! You show up, kill some monsters, save some folks, same old same old... Right?MAJOR spoilers for the game Bloodborne as this fic will follow the plot from the game and the Old Hunter's DLC! There are TONS of characters so everyone will be making an appearance at some point. This will update slower than my other fics as I want to create piece of art for it since it's such a visually different setting.





	1. A Summons (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> My first crack at an AU. A bit of a crack AU itself actually... It's probably not something most people would have asked for but I hope you'll enjoy it regardless! 
> 
> For anyone who doesn't know what Bloodborne is and would like the gist of it you can watch the trailer for the game here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iTDvYvlyPaE
> 
> No special warnings for this chapter, it's a bit on the short side, but the others will be longer! There is also some art at the bottom, as I said in the summary I wanted to do a doddle of some kind for each one since this Universe is so visually different. 
> 
> As always the only person who edited this was me so if there's any mistakes or continuity errors, tags that need to be added, or anything else, please let me know so I can fix them!

 

 

          Simmons heaved a sigh, which he seemed to be doing a lot these days, as he leaned back in his chair, surveying the street.

Said street was not of any particular importance, just the same sort of cobble and paving stones you'd see almost anywhere. Just another singularly dull town, not quite large enough to be a city, not small enough to be a village. Plaster and hardwood buildings, stone foundations, a few with more than two stories, some shops, the single local tavern, and of course the occasional restaurant or café, like this one, all surrounded by the hustle and bustle of residents, a few traders, the scant traveler or tourist, and the expected amount of livestock.

Not to say any of it was bad, the town was fine, the café was fine.

The day was nice so they were seated outside, only a waist-high, collapsible, iron fence between them and pedestrians, done in the same simple yet elegant pattern as the metal tables and chairs, the air was warm and carried the sweet scent of the last remaining days of summer. Even the food hadn't been bad.

It was pleasant.

His more dower mood was just a result of overthinking. But could he be blamed? A summons from The Healing Church? After all this time? Two failures like them? And the missive was a mission to Yharnam? Why _Yharnam?_ The city and it's surrounding villages was massive and sported a large college, but...

The redhead heaved another sigh, toying with the edge of his teacup with the fingers of his clockwork hand, even with the soft leather glove on he was still aware of the appendage, ticking and clinking, the parts locking and unlocking, giving it form and function, the fluidity of motion. This hand, the arm, the leg, his eye (behind it's patch), all on the left, and all attempts by The Church to better him, make him strong enough to be a proper hunter.

He'd always been so weak.

How were they supposed to-?

  
         

"I swear I'm going to dump that right on your head if you sigh into it one more time."

 

          Simmons looked up, startled, at the man across from him, who was staring at him in mild irritation, Grif, "I wasn't sighing that much!" a thick dark eyebrow raised at his protest, "I'm just- I'm just confused as to why we of all people would be sent for. It's not like we're particularly high up in anyone's favor, we haven't done anything spectacular enough to warrant being asked for by name!"

Grif shrugged, taking a swing from his bottle of beer before replying, "You're just over thinking it." he tutted, "Probably all it is, is that all their big fancy Church Hunters are out doing something way more important. They know a hunt is due for Yharnam, they have a branch there, so they need to make sure that someone comes to deal with it. It's not important enough to call anyone back so they send for people like us, cause they know we don't have any weird ass vendettas. Simple. You know how paranoid they are, thinking everyone is out to get them.  _Research, oh my precious research!_   It's like the main reason we took off when we were... what, 15? 16? Saw that shit coming from a mile away." the heavier man chuckled, "And obviously we won't be the only ones there, hunts of any size draw hunters from all over the place. We'll be lucky to get more than scraps. Just like always."

Simmons laughed, "That's true. Might have been nice to be important for once though..."

"Maybe," Grif replied, bumping his foot softly against Simmons' under the table, "you'd have to be a dog of The Church though. Not to mention of it really was something super serious you'd be a total basket case."

"True." Simmons acknowledged with a reluctant grumble.

  
          The redhead raised his arm and flagged down a waiter, placing an order for a new teapot, just hot water. The  boy's mildly confused reaction became understanding after a quick glance to their garb and equipment and then flashed into mild fear as the young man nodded furtively and rushed off to fulfill their request.

Grif made a face as Simmons fished two packets from one of the pouches at his belt, "Do we need to do that now? We're not even going to be there until tomorrow..."

"Yes we do, you know it takes time to work, one the day before and one in the morning, if you take it too late you could end up prey instead. Do you really want to risk that?"

"No," Grif grumbled, "It tastes terrible though..."

His partner smiled affectionately, "You have a child's taste don't you?" he teased, "Would you prefer I ask them for a glass of milk instead? We could mix some sugar in it."

Grif scoffed out a laugh, "I was thinking more along the lines of putting it in my beer." he hoisted the bottle in a mock toast.

"I wouldn't do that." the redhead scolded, "You don't mix medicine with alcohol."

"It's going to mix in my stomach anyway."

Simmons rolled his eyes.

Their tea, minus the tea, arrived in short order, delivered not by the boy but by a nervous young woman, bespectacled, with trembling hands, lisping slightly as she stammered, "Your water Sirs, please let us know if you need anything else. We, we weren't aware you were, um, I mean, we are in gratitude for your service to us Sirs."

Poor girl, it was obvious she'd had this dumped on her by the original young man, whom Simmons could see peeping out the door from the corner of his eye.

He took the tray from the woman's hands and set it on the table, to her obvious surprise, offering her a kind smile, "Thank you very much, Miss..?"

"K-Katie, uh, Jensen!"

Simmons fished in the breast pocket of his vest, pulling out a couple notes and pressed them into her hand, "For you Miss Jensen, consider it a tip.”

“For your bravery,” Grif commented snidely under his breath.

The young lady flushed in embarrassment at her obvious nerves but that was soon replaced by surprise, her eyes wide as saucers behind their frames as she registered how large the sum she'd been given actually was.

"The young man?" Simmons prompted.

"Palomo? Um, Sir?" she replied, still staring at the notes.

"Yes. You make sure you rub that in his face. It's for you, just you, don't let anyone else have it."

"Yes Sir!" she tittered, fear now gone, she smiled brilliantly, looking like she might cry, "Thank you Sir!" she fumbled into somewhat half between a bow and a curtsy before scurrying off, clutching the money to her breast.

"Well well, look at you," Grif chimed in suddenly, having been uncharacteristic in his single remark and near total silence, until now, which probably didn't bode well for Simmons, "such a gentleman! Better be careful, that was an awfully _big_ tip, people might get the wrong idea."

Simmons flushed and spluttered, a sharp contrast from only a few moments prior, "That, that wasn't it at all! I just don't like bullies! And it wasn't that much money, I mean, it's not like we actually need it."

He was flustered by another affectionate tap to his boot from under the table.

"Your fancy hot water is getting cold, ' _Sir_ '." the last part was said in a squeaky little voice.

Simmons scoffed in embarrassment, face heating up. He chucked one of the packets he'd previously removed from his belt at Grif's head, the larger man caught it deftly, grinning like a bastard, "Take your medicine, fatass."

Well, excuse him for wanting to be as cool as his occupation implied, for just one moment!

His glare softened when rather than retort Grif instead reached for the little kettle the girl had brought and poured the steaming water it held into the two simple, white, teacups that had accompanied it, and passed one to him.

Gaze dropping to the cup, Simmons tore open his packet, hearing the echoing rip of Grif doing the same. With the packet in his right hand he held the sleeve of his coat out of the way with his left, as he'd been taught, and with careful motions poured the contents of the packet into the cup.

  
          The powder inside was white, crystalline, like sugar or salt, dotted with flecks of black, scraps of dark green, and glinting scarlet specks.

Barely a moment passed after the packet was fully empty and the powder began to settle before a brilliant red billowed and bled out into the water. It grew darker and darker as it seeped fully into the liquid, and with smooth practiced motions, without even looking away, Simmons picked up a spoon and began to slowly stir. The precise amount of turns clockwise, the precise amount counterclockwise, feeling the slight resistance of the contents thickening.

It was always a little strange, the way everything seemed to tunnel, like the world around you was fading to black, how sounds seemed so distant, how you couldn't bring yourself to look away from the cup as its contents became a red so dark it was almost black. The way he was aware of Grif in front of him, mirroring his movements without meaning to, yet so close you'd think they'd rehearsed it. That almost inaudible whispering _buzzing_...

He set the spoon down without a sound, lifting the cup to his lips, only then able to look up, eyes meeting briefly with his partner's and for a moment Grif's eyes seemed to gleam like those of a cat, the original dark brown a molten gold, his borrowed green a silver glint, like moonlight on steel.

Simmons wondered absently if his remaining eye looked the same to Grif.

The moment was swiftly gone however when he closed his eyes and tipped his drink back draining the contents. The viscous liquid cascaded over his tongue as he swallowed it; the now familiar overpowering metallic flavor, containing an almost spicy heat and hints of tastes he still couldn't identify. If it weren't for it's almost living temperature it would be like drinking sludge.

It had made him retch when he'd first drank it as a child, throwing it back up on the pristine marble floor, much to his instructor's disappointment and his own compounding shame. He'd been the only child who had, though Grif had assured him afterward that there hadn't been a single one of them who hadn't thought the taste repulsive, and several with upset stomachs. His sister trying to help by making her displeasure at the concoction very much known, in a tantrum that echoed like thunder off the walls. It didn't make him feel any better though.

He'd eventually become able to force it and keep it down, and now as an adult, Simmons hardly thought about it anymore. Much as one becomes used to the taste of coffee as they get older.

He wasn't sure if you could say he liked it now or not. It was a bit irrelevant. It was just something you had to do. The hunt was in their blood, they'd be compelled to participate when they arrived, to cut down the beasts there and burn out the infection. It could be done without it, but the medicine ensured protection against becoming a beast yourself. Everyone knew tales of hunters becoming blood drunk and succumbing to a maddening frenzy. It was just more sensible this way.

  
          Simmons set his empty cup down, having the dizzying sense of the world snapping back into focus when the china touched the saucer. His eyes went immediately to Grif who was looking somewhat dazedly at his cup, before suddenly blinking and shaking his head.

"Stuff tastes like shit..." the darker skinned man grumbled, snatching up his bottle of beer and tossing it back to wash away the taste.

"Child." Simmons tutted in mock scolding, trying to ignore the way everything seemed to look a little colder, less real, for the first few minutes after taking the inoculate, or the way his skin tingled like cracked glass as the substance worked its way into his system. Small price to pay.

The redhead leaned back in his seat and looked up at the clouds passing overhead, trying to dissipate his nerves.

 

He needed to stop over thinking things.

 

It was simple and would likely play out just like any other hunt they'd been on.

They'd arrive in Yharnam in the early afternoon, they would make contact with the huntmaster who would be presiding over the hunter's dream and request admittance, they might have to create a contract or take a mark to be bound to it, likely they would need to have blood administered as well, then they would be free to take part in the hunt until morning, and that would be that.

 

Simple.  
  
  
  
  


 


	2. First You Will Need a Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clothing and Hood worn upon awakening to the nightmare of blood and beasts.   
> Not typical clothing for Yharnam, perhaps it is of foreign origin. It is said, after all, the traveler came to Yharnam from afar. Perhaps its wearer had to stay out of sight, and travel by cover of darkness?
> 
> The bandage is terribly worn and unsanitary.  
> A faint memory recalls blood ministration, involving the transfusion of unknown blood.  
> Not long after. the nightmare began.
> 
> But, without memory, who will ever know?  
>  \- Compiled description of “Foreign Hunter” starting gear, Bloodborne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Time to start the story proper! There's a lot of set up in this chapter but hopefully it will feel natural and not just a giant exposition dump.
> 
> There is also a sex scene, or at least my attempt at one ^^0 hopefully it's not too bad!

 

 

           "Oh, yes... Pale blood..."

 

The man in front of him looks only a handful of years older than himself, but there's something about him that makes him want to refer to him as 'the old man'.

Maybe its the wheelchair? The tattered near rags of his coat, dusty and ash gray? Maybe it's the bandages over his eyes? Are those bandages? He can see them peeking from under the brim of his hat flanked by slightly greasy black hair...

"Well," the old man continues on, sounding vaguely amused, but also with the smoothness of someone who has had to say these things over and over and over, "you've come to the right place."

He shifts a little in the decrepit chair, it creaks, groans, as though annoyed.

"Yharnam is the home of blood ministration. You need only unravel its mystery."

Slowly he wheels himself closer, ever so slightly, "But, where is an outsider like you to begin?" there's that amusement again, "Easy," his voice drops, "with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own..." he's much closer now, almost enough to whisper in his ear, "But first, you'll need a contract..."

Yes. Well, that was expected.

He nods.

The old man grins.

 

 

          "Good. All signed and sealed." he's ushered to a nearby surgical table, "Now, let's begin the transfusion." he seems to note the slight hesitation, "Oh, don't you worry." he assures as straps are carefully tightened, there so a patient does not harm themselves.

  
"Whatever happens... You may think it all a mere bad dream..."

 

 

          There is an overwhelming scent of blood in the air.

 

It's terrible.

                                                                               Old and sickly.

...Infected.

 

His head is spinning, pounding in time with his pulse, but he somehow manages to tilt it to the side, the metal of the table is so cold it feels hot, he flinches, squirms and whines pathetically, it is like the fevers he got so often as a child...

He's distracted by the sudden thought of, ' _but when was that?_ ' when he sees it.

Blood is pooling on the floor, thick and viscous. It's spreading. Not quickly, but faster than a puddle with no source should be spreading. It's almost like it's coming up through the floorboards.

There's something else though and its so hard to focus that he doesn't fully realize there's a massive creature pulling itself up out of the variable ocean of blood until it's almost freed itself.

  
          It most closely resembles a wolf, he thinks, but only the head, the body is all wrong, it's too... Human? Its drenched in blood, so much that its gleaming fangs, its matted, filthy, fur, look like they are made of the fluid. He cannot tell if it is so drenched that patches of fur are matted down or if its flesh is peeling off in places.

Is that skin hanging in tatters? Or the remains of clothes?

Its eyes are what stand out the most, burning pits like hot coals pushed back into the emaciated skull. They are looking right at him and he thinks distantly, as it fully emerges, stooped so its massive form doesn't strike the dilapidated chandelier hanging overhead, as it stalks slowly over to where he's strapped down......there will be no escape.

He will die here.

It's strange then, that it reaches for him, no not for... **To.**

Claws as long as kitchen knives, on a paw that is more human hand, and it's holding it out. Almost curious. Almost pleading. Waiting for him to take it?

  
          He doesn't even get to begin considering the possibility of why it would do this, or if he should or shouldn't. One second it is reaching, the next it is shrieking and screaming, flames racing from the tips of its fingers, along its outstretched hand, and up its arm, wreathing its body in blazing light.

It screams and shrieks in agony, rearing back and clawing at the air, at itself, and he feels tears rise unbidden and fall in reaction to these raw instinctive sounds of suffering.

At least its brief, perhaps, in only seconds the creature's screams cease and it falls forward, chard body crashing to the floor and shattering in a shower of sparks and ash.

He weakly manages to roll his head back to face the ceiling, sparing himself the sight, unsure of why it bothers him in the way it does.

_Good thing we took that medicine_. He finds himself thinking. But...what medicine was it? Why did he take it? Who took it with him? Searching for those answers makes his head pound and he almost blacks out again.

  
He is spared or perhaps prevented, from unconsciousness by a tentative touch to his leg.

  
          Managing to look down he sees a single hand, tiny, like an infant's, but with the proportions of an adult, horrifically thin and skeletal, skin papery and corpse white, tinged with a sickly blue. It clutches furtively at the cloth of his pants, its owner pulling itself up onto the table.

It's so small, it wears no clothes but has no sex organs or characteristics, the basic shape of the body is like an emaciated human child's, but smaller, and has a consistency to it almost like sculpted clay. Like it might be soft and pliant, crushed easily into an unrecognizable mass in one's hand. Its head is swollen and bulbous, even more like a clay project made by a child. There are two milky white orbs bulging out of the sockets pressed back into its head, no nose, no ears, and a mouth like a wound, far too wide, lip-less, mangled teeth clacking uselessly as it crawls higher.

He registers the presence of other small creatures, identical in body, only the heads are different. One on his right hauls itself up near his head, has a vertical gash for a mouth, no teeth, another to his left has a large distorted cyst like patch over one eye.

He swears there are sounds, like the primal instinctive moans made by the sick or by newborns, or those who have lost all of their faculties or sense. He swears he hears it, but there is no sound, he knows there isn't but he's so sure... They call without sound or words but he knows.

  
He knows they are so happy to see him.

  
They climb and they cling and they gather around his head, fighting each other for a chance to look, to touch.

He's unable to stay conscious after that, darkness swallowing him whole.

 

 

_Ah..._

A woman's voice in the darkness, soft, breathy, almost amused.

 

_You've found yourself a Hunter..._

 

 

*****

 

          He woke with a start. A shrill sort of heaving gasp, as one would awaken perhaps after a nightmare or a near drowning.

The first thing he registered was how much he hurt. Pain that settled into your bones, made your skin hurt, like a fever. His head pounded.

Had he been sick? Was he still sick?

The second thing he registered was the smell. Overly thick and pungent, metallic.

Blood.

_A sea's worth, an endless mire, a creature rising from it, claws and teeth and death, it reaches for him-_

His stomach rolled and in instinctive desperation, he flung himself sideways, hands gripping the edge of the horribly cold metal table, coughing, and heaving, but not throwing up.

_Probably nothing to throw up..._

That was probably a good thing though because the momentum was too much and he pitched forward as his trembling arms forsook him and he tumbled to the floor with a muffled thud.

"Fuck!" he hissed, as pain reverberated through his body.

Huh, that was his voice, wasn't it?

  
_Well of course it was. What a stupid question to-_

  
He felt his eyes go wide.

He couldn't remember.

Not the name of this place, not his reason for being here, not even his own name, he-

What did he even look like?

_Be calm, please, please, be calm._ He could hear his gasping breaths echoing against the high walls, as he lay there, sprawled on the dusty, filthy, floor, like a broken puppet, ever increasing in desperation and tempo as anxiety clawed it's way down his throat and crushed his chest. _You can't panic or you'll die._

But why? Was this place really that dangerous? Why was he here if it was?

He grit his teeth as pain lanced through his head, seemed trying to remember would only make his head hurt worse.

Yanking a trembling hand to his mouth he bit down on the skin of his knuckles, the spark of stinging pain pushing away a bit of the fog, quelling the panic, giving him something to focus on.

  
Okay. Okay. Take stock. What did he know?

  
He was a man. At least he was pretty sure he was, he kept thinking of himself as 'he' after all.

_Wow, fucking stellar._

He was also sarcastic it seemed.

_Lord, I'm going to fucking die here..._

Depressed.

...Fantastic!

Okay. He could figure something out. Clearly, he knew **something** , he just couldn't get to it, not on purpose anyway. First thing was first, what did he even look like?

He could just look down at his own body to figure out what that looked like, but his face was first, he _needed_ to put a face to himself. Maybe then he'd get a name?

  
          Slowly he propped himself up and reached for the edge of what he now identified as a metal gurney, the surface he'd fallen from. With a grunt and gritted teeth, he pulled, trying to raise himself up, to get himself back on his feet.

He only had a moment when the table gave a warning groan and he yelped out a curse as it fell, clanging in a seemingly thunderous way as it clattered to the floor, sending him sprawling again.

He froze there as he heard something (footsteps?) on the floor. Somewhere outside the room? A heavy hurried scamper at first, then a slow careful plodding. There was a long stretch of silence, during which he did not move at all. Something rattling about in his brain screaming that he shouldn't.

_Don't even breath, it will hear you._

Finally, when slowly rising panic was about to overtake him, the footsteps resumed, this time moving away from him. Slow and lumbering with the apparently large mass of their owner, then more hurriedly away until he could no longer hear them.

Slowly he let out the breath he'd been holding, finally risking raising his head and, stiffly and gingerly pulling himself up to a more seated position.

The gurney, while old, was oddly clean.

_Probably because you were laying on it. Who'd lay on a dirty gurney?_

It had some meager padding on it, but it was coming off in places, especially near the top. Probably what he'd put his face on in his... Dream?

Hands shaky, but feeling at least a little stronger than before, he pulled the ties of the padding free and, with only mild difficulty, pushed it off onto the floor.

  
He stared.

  
Slowly he leaned closer, closer, and finally, the warped and blurry shape reflected in the metal came into focus.

  
          A face. His face.

          It was on the lean side, maybe a little bony, high cheeked, youthful, maybe a bit too much though, he had the distinct impression that he was older than he appeared and that this was a distinct point of dislike for himself. (one of many) He was pale, exactly how much was up for debate, he wasn't exactly at 100%, all pain and trembling nerves, so he'd probably lost some color. He hoped that was the case... He looked a shade or two shy of a dead body. Ears, not too big, but stuck out a little more than he'd like. Nose, a bit on the small side, a bit too pointy. About the only saving grace was the freckles, dusted along his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He suspected they were elsewhere on his body too. They only compounded the sense of youth though, so it probably made his 'baby face' worse.

At least his hair had potential. It was red, a very nice shade, at least he thought so, on the darker side, but it probably caught the light nicely. Trouble was how it writhed around in curves and half ringlets, changing direction seemingly just for the hell of it and so fine that strands were liable to float off on their own and the whole thing became just a brier of voluminous mass.

Probably cleaned up better if it was pulled back though, he must have to work a great deal to make it behave. He should have had it tied back... Maybe it had come undone in his tumble...

On the topic of flaws, there was a bit of bruising under his right eye, faint, but framed by deeper creases, a sign of poor sleeping habits, or high stress.

_Gee, I wonder which one is more likely..._

The eye in question was green, not an unpleasant shade, on the darker side, a rich green, like a forest-y green. Too bad it looked so dull though. Tired and worn out. Old man eye.

_An old man's eyes on a baby face, amazing. I must have thousands of suitors!_

Sarcastic.

His left was probably green too or had been, not that he could tell, what with the patch covering it. The area around it was cracked with scar tissue, what sort of injury had he gotten?

Hesitantly he reached up towards it. Grotesque as maybe it would be, perhaps he'd remember something? At the very least he should know what was there right?

His fingers barely touched the leather before he yanked his hand away, breath torn from him in a wave of stark terror.

**Do not touch it.**

"Shit..." he breathed, forcing his lungs to inhale, exhale, " _Fuck_..." calm down, worry about that later.

He stared at his reflection, trying to distract himself while he regulated his breathing.

His body was kind of scrawny looking... Lanky.

_He'd worked really hard, harder than the others sometimes, even when he finally got stronger it never showed..._

Ah, suitably fit but too tall for it to matter then?

Any clues from his clothes?

Black slacks... Decent make... Heavy leather boots. Suspender straps, dropping over his legs and disappearing behind him. A crisp white shirt, under a trim dark red vest, over that a dark caplet with a hood...

Odd...

_I wasn't wearing this before..._

But then what had he been wearing? Why change?

He fiddled with the collar of his shirt, there was something under it. Something tight?

Was that a bandage?

What he could see looked neat and clean, carefully wrapped. He pulled the edge down ever so slightly... Catching a brief glimpse of scar tissue, like on his face, and some sort of... Cuts... Or...?

His stomach rolled and he pulled his hand away with a flinch.

Okay. Don't touch that either... Eye and neck... No touchy. Got it.

He looked down to his right arm, the sleeve of his shirt had been rolled up, a thick, and frankly filthy, bandage wrapped around his forearm.

_Transfusion_.

Probably best not to touch that either, at least not until he was sure that doing so wouldn't give him an aneurysm.

Speaking of touch... Why the one glove? Just on the left? Why not the right? Not like it would be in the way of the bandage... Unless it had been...

He held the offending appendage up, flexing his fingers under the leather. It felt... Actually, he didn't really feel much of anything... He defiantly shook his hand. Heavier than it should be? Was it? And was that...?

He shook it again.

It was! Faint, but that was a clanking sound!

Highly concerned that this of all things didn't seem to warrant any instinctive panic from him, he cautiously pulled the glove off.

_Huh..._

That was a metal hand...

And wrist.

And arm...

Okay... And just why was he not panicking? He could feel his anxiety rising, but again, more to do with alarm that there was no alarm.

It was... Nice? The construction. Someone had clearly put a great deal of effort into it. The frame was metal, inlaid with wood panels, burl wood, he somehow knew, kept the structure sound, protected so it so all the delicate parts inside wouldn't break. There were little gaps but he couldn't see the inside with such poor lighting. If he held it up to his ear and flexed the fingers, however, he could hear the tiny gears clicking softly.

There were... carvings? Yeah, a slight engraving had been done all about the larger wooden parts. Some sort of flowers?

_He'd been unsure when the offer had come up, but the other man had pressed and eventually won out, insisting on these large flowers. From his home, he'd said, wherever that was, the flowers were the one thing he remembered from that place. He'd been so careful when he'd carved it-_

Slowly lowering his... (Prosthetic?) arm, he looked down worriedly at his legs.

Cautiously he tugged up the pant leg of the right limb.

Boot, boot, boot, skin.

He heaved a sigh of relief before his gaze slid worriedly to the left limb.

Boot, boot, boot, metal.

Fuck.

No flowers.

Well, double fuck.

He covered his mouth with his flesh hand, even as he drew his legs up and half curled into a ball, muffling a soft peel of hysterical laughter.

Was that it!? Any more surprises!? Some magical printing press hidden in his backside!?

Not much of him left was there? He must be a disaster of a person. A walking accident!

  
          He glanced at his miserable reflection, a pathetic amalgamation of a person, and still no name...

He glared at himself, wracking his aching brain, come on, something, anything! Just something he could call himself other than 'me' or 'I'.

Maybe he didn't have a name?

 

_...Grif..._

Grif? Was that his name?! Grif!

His excitement faltered.

No. That wasn't his name... But, just having it, thinking it, made his chest feel odd, aching, but not in a painful way, like it was too tight, too full inside.

Grif, whoever that was, was someone important. Someone very important. If he found this person, they'd know what to do, who he was, why he was a mess!

To do that he couldn't stay sulking in a ball on the floor while heavens knew what stalked the halls!

 

          Gingerly the redhead tried getting to his feet. His legs wobbled and he struggled with a feeling of lightheadedness for a moment, but once it passed he found he felt more stable.

Good! Good good good, standing, and we have a goal. Goals are good. They keep you focused, prevent you from having a nervous breakdown in a corner somewhere.

Okay. Now. Where was he? And where should he go?

Slowly, brushing his long, red, nightmare hair, out of his face, he examined the room he was in.

It wasn't very large. Not closet-sized, but no bigger than perhaps a bedroom? The walls were covered with rectangular wood paneling that reached about halfway up the overly tall walls, giving way to wooden flat boards and buttressing, forming the archway of the ceiling. There were two exam tables, the one he'd woken up on, and another pushed farther away near a corner. There were a few chairs scattered about, one in splinters. A couple of shelves containing laboratory equipment. Some bits of medical memorabilia, several tools for performing transfusions, a couple of those metal stands they used to hold bags of fluid, knocked over and forgotten. There was an old, and obviously not functioning, gas-powered chandelier hanging from the ceiling, swaying faintly from some draft. The only light source in the room was from a small lantern hanging from the wall next to a set of double doors, apparently the only way out.

There didn't seem to be any windows, at least not that he saw, though there could have been one behind one of the many bookcases scattered against the walls, shelves warped with the weight of their burdens. A cursory examination revealed that these were all (or at least mostly) medical books, biology texts, the odd astronomy tome, things like that.

Maybe this had been the home of some scholar or doctor?

Either way, the whole room was filthy, thick gray dust over every surface. No cobwebs oddly enough, though that hardly made the place more appealing.

  
As the redhead started towards the only visible exit to the room, something caught his eye. On a chair, only a few steps away, was a sheet of paper, the old and yellowed parchment was not blanketed in dirt and dust, and thus stood out like a beacon. Meaning it had been put here recently!

Cautiously he picked it up, peering at the words scrawled in delicate cursive upon it, in some dark colored ink.

  
_"Seek the pale blood to transcend the hunt."_

  
...Well alright then...

Though not of any tremendous assistance it wasn't necessarily completely unhelpful. He remembered, or thought he did, someone mentioning it in his dream, (or memory? Both?) in a way that implied he'd asked them about it. So this might mean that there had been someone else here who maybe knew why _he_ was here? Or at least what 'Pale Blood' was.

Idea firmly in mind he folded the paper up and put it in his pocket, making for the door as silently as possible.

Even with the lantern's light drawing the eye he doubted he could have missed it. The double doors had panes of glass in them, looking out into whatever was outside, another set of windows at least, massive ones by the look of it. He could see a brilliant gold and crimson sunset through them, juxtaposed to the dark silhouette of an ancient and worn out chandelier.

Slowly he tried the handle, delighted when it didn't so much as squeak and the doors slid open with an almost silent groan.

Thank goodness for small graces he thought... right before he almost fell down the massive staircase that lay _immediately_ outside the doorway!

Despite its appearance the door proved at least to not be so old as to be kindling and held his weight as he saved himself by clinging to the knob, eyes wide in alarm, heart racing and face surely scarlet in embarrassment.

_What a disappointing ending to this absurd adventure! Falling down some stairs and breaking your neck!_

Grumbling silently to himself about overly dramatic and poorly thought out architectural decisions (seriously was a grand double wide staircase that stopped flush with a set of double doors, ENTIRELY NECESSARY!?) the redhead made his way carefully down, grateful, if a bit surprised, that the old wood didn't creak and moan under his footsteps. In fact, the only sound he did make was a soft and muffled plodding.

Maybe there was just that much dust?

  
          The room the staircase connected to was similar in construction to the one he had awoken in. There wasn't much inside in terms of furniture, just the remains of a chair in the corner, whether it had been torn apart or had just rotted through was unclear. Other than that there was nothing. Not that that mattered. Because the room wasn't exactly unremarkable.

It was in fact quite mark-able.

In that, it was marked, as in damaged. You know, just wordplay and...

Never mind...

  
          On the right, far side, of the room was a large crater, its scope, a clear indication of some massive impact, had the cautious man looking up to the ceiling expecting to see some hole where whatever might have landed here had fallen from. But, there was nothing...

It wasn't the only crater either. There was another on the left, near the center of the room, still large but much smaller than the previous. There were a couple of other damaged parts of the floor, but they weren't as bad. Mostly just a cracked or missing board or two. These other ones were far more concerning.

Something very big and **VERY** heavy had either landed here somehow or had slammed someone or something into the floor.

He felt that the latter was more likely because the floor was also covered in blood!

Not like it was flooded.

That would be stupid... Given the many holes.

It was all over the place though. Splattered in long curved spurts up the walls, splashed into corners, and splatted into large smooches on the floor. The largest source was nearest to the door, an impact that was almost puddle-like, already soaking away into the wood, with a long wide smear, indicating whoever it belonged to had been dragged away.

_...Well...Fuck..._

With nowhere else to go the man slowly moved to the new room.

  
          It was much larger than the previous, but the ceiling was a great deal lower, slightly more than average probably. Walls were the same as the other rooms, at least from what little he could see. Nearly the entirety of the space was jammed full of medical equipment; tables of chemicals and tools, shelving cases, arranged in a hurry, holding supplies and medicines, polls to hang bags for transfusions, some standing, some fallen, books and papers scattered and torn on the floor, and gurneys like the one he'd woken up on crammed into nearly any space available.

This was serious or had been. This set up screamed of frenzied preparations, of emergency. What had happened to be in need of a makeshift sickroom like this? One that had been abandoned in a hurry, not a soul remaining?

What sort of epidemic had ravaged this place?

He didn't dwell on it for long, something far more pressing grabbing his attention. With all the debris he didn't immediately see it and in fact, might have wandered right into it had he not heard it first.

A low, ragged, wet, _breathing_. Squishing, squelching, lapping, _crunching_.

The redhead froze, eyes frantically searching for the source.

_THERE!_

Right by a large doorway (the room's only unimpeded exit) was a MASSIVE wolf.

  
No... Not a wolf. Not really.

  
          It was like the beast from his dream, but not red, not soaked in or made of blood. It was a dark, almost black, gray, fur wild and sticking out at all angles, hunched over on two huge, muscled, back legs, it's more human-like forelimbs pinning down whatever remained of the poor soul it was currently gorging itself on.

He was in the middle of taking a step backward when the smell hit him, his eyes going wide.

Blood, from the body, a smell that probably should have been revolting but for him belonged more in the 'nothing special' category, but also... also... something more... dark... Spicy?

Blood. From the _beast_.

_It's injured... Badly..._

His arms, raised in caution, dropped to his sides, his body relaxed and his eyes fell closed without his permission as he instinctively took a slow, deep, inhale. Pulling the scent deep into his lungs, dragging it over the pallet of his tongue on slow exhale.

He was already moving before his eyes were fully open again, hands gliding up to pull the hood over his head, body dropping fluidly into a stealthy crouch, steps silent as he edged closer. Slow, practiced, eyes locked on the beast.

_Closer... Closer..._

The air was so thick with the smell now... Heat prickled under his skin, exaltation spreading through his chest, pulse pounding in his veins, deafening him.

Any weakness still in his limbs seemed gone now, muscles flexed, his fingers twitched, clenching, un-clenching, he felt **power** , down to his very bones.

_Almost..._

_Almost..._

  
The beast's head snapped up.

_No!_

At him? No. The right.

It tensed.

_No!_

Someone! Someone else! A man, also hooded, shorter, bulkier, on the right!

The beast snarled, abandoning it's meal, leaping for the other man as he charged it with a booming roar. The wolf swiped, the man, despite his bulk, jerked out of the way, landing a heavy blow to the abomination.

_NO! Bastard!_

The redhead snarled, abandoning stealth altogether, and raced towards them, bounding quickly over the gurneys, sending one slamming to the floor with a clatter.

_It's mine!_

The beast reared on its hind legs, arm whipping out in an arc, catching the unwanted intruder and sending him crashing into a pile of equipment, before whirling on the redhead as he darted towards him.

Its claws sliced the air and the slender man flung his body into a sideways roll, dodging nimbly out of the way, lashing out with his leg, his boot landing a solid cracking blow to the creature's skull. It surged dazedly, slamming the ground inches from where he was, ineffectively.

_Mine!_

A maddening malicious grin split the redhead's face, and he pushed forward to take advantage.

The beast's body jerked to the side, knocked away by the impact of the other man, who had recovered from the throw and had slammed his own bulk into the creature.

The redhead screamed in fury as his strike passed uselessly through the air.

The wolf, however, was far luckier.

The angle was perfect and with a flash of knife-like claws, it buried them deep in the redhead's side.

He cried out in agony. Burning pain torn through him, he felt the crunch and crumble of bone under the force of the impact, a huge gout of blood painting the filthy floor when the creature tore it's hand free.

He nearly collapsed, catching himself with a hand, pathetic, primitive whines and whimpers of suffering tumbling from his lips.

Back off. He needed to regroup, recover, another blow like that and he'd die. He might, even now.

The other man grappled with the wolf again, he was avoiding any serious blows but didn't seem to be able to get any hits in.

_He can't have it! It's mine! You can't! you can't!_

_I can't. I need to run._

  
_“You really need to stop backing off all the time.” his hand was warm against his back, face scrunched up in amusement but also genuine care, “I get you want to be careful and that's fine, but if you don't press the attack when you get hurt then you won't recover. We don't heal normally, take advantage.”_

  
_Grif._

  
The scent of the beast's blood hit him again, his eyes drawn like a siren's call, as adrenaline surged through him again.

There! It's side, just before the arm, a gash between the ribs, deep and bleeding.

_“You need to take advantage.”_

It seized the heavier man, hauling him up in the air, it screamed in his face, free arm pulling back to strike.

_Now!_

The redhead kicked up from the floor, a step and a half of his long stride, and with a howl of rage, drew back his arm and threw his fist with all his strength against the injury.

It gave immediately and he did not relent, his arm sinking in to just past the elbow.

The wolf shrieked, its hold on the stocky, presumptuous intruder faltering, it tried to thrash but the agony held it momentarily paralyzed.

The heat around his arm was scalding, but he paid it no mind, he flexed his fingers grabbing hold of whatever soft mass that was within reach, crushing the organ or tissue in his grasp and ripping his arm from the wound with as much force as he could manage with his own injuries.

A fount of blood followed his arm, dousing him from head to toe.

Perhaps it should have repulsed him, but it didn't. Instead, he felt a soothing relief from the gashes in his side, a cracking knitting feeling, and a gentle wave of euphoria. He didn't need to look to know his wounds had all but mended themselves.

Staggering and seething blood and foam from its muzzle the beast rounded on him, keen to repay his audacity, but it seemed that was the very chance the intruder had been waiting for, and no sooner had it turned, it jerked at a brutal impact from behind, the sound of splintering wood accompanying it's second furious cry.

The redhead seized this new opportunity as the beast twisted to fend off its other attacker, having lost its upper hand now that it was stuck between the two of them, and leaped upon it, wrapping his mechanical arm around its neck, securing his hold by grabbing the wrist with his human hand.

With a grunt he threw all his weight backward, squeezing as hard as he could, grinning in frenzied delight as the thing reared up, head thrown back and struggling, even as the telltale crunching, wet, popping, of bone and sinew beginning to fail, echoed throughout the room.

It thrashed. Or tried to. Every time it made to grab for him its body rocked with harsh impact as, presumably, the insufferable other man struck it.

It roared, snarled, and screamed, and choked, as mouthfuls of spittle and blood foamed from its jaws, but its movements grew steadily weaker until it's body shuddered, and with a final-sounding crack, the redhead felt his feet touch the floor, and the beast fell like a rag doll to a crumpled heap.

  
          He ignored his unwanted companion and stared at the now corpse, expectantly, waiting... but for what?

The question need not have been asked because almost immediately something... like a mist? Or a dust? Something red and ghostly arose from the body, flitting and curling like one would expect smoke to do, but after a moment moved with purpose, and curled about the redhead. It clung to him like an embrace but pressed further and he felt it sink into him, a feeling of strength following, a sense of victory, of having gained something.

An echo... almost...

_“The essence of all living things resides within the blood.” Someone had taught him that once. “When a Hunter slays a beast they call that essence to them, making it a part of themselves, this is called a Blood Echo. A skilled Hunter will learn how to add that to their own strength, even to their own tools. The more one gains the stronger one becomes, the stronger foes you vanquish, the greater the desire becomes. This is the nature of the hunt. A balance all Hunters must be mindful of.”_

It should have happened as soon as he'd killed it though. Why the delay? As though the process had been confused somehow.

His head jerked up, eyes locking on the other man, catching a glimpse of the same echo disappearing into him.

_How dare...._

_How DARE!_

His eyes narrowed, he could not see those of the other but he saw a similar scowl, knowing they were both thinking the same thing.

_It was mine!_

  
          Almost at once they charged each other. One swung, then the other, the redhead doing his best to dodge his enemy's clearly heavier blows. He struggled against the blinding rage seething within him. This other, this intruder, was stronger in terms of blows, but he was faster, all he needed was one good shot. He could tell, if he did, the other would falter, and it would be simple then to break his arms and legs, make him suffer before he died. for daring to steal his kill!

He twisted out of the way of a swing that cracked a table in half, cascading bits of paper and glass across the floor. The redhead dodged to the side, trying to circle, trying to get behind.

_I'll kill you... I'll make you pay!_

He grinned gleefully when he rolled out of the way of a more reckless grapple and ended up exactly where he wanted, he swung his arms high, clasping his hands, ready to bring them down, it would need to be his hardest blow.

His expression faltered when instead of doing the expected, trying to turn or move, instead his opponent _ducked_ , twisting as his strike came down and impacted at a bad angle, glancing off of his shoulder instead, the redhead's eyes widened in surprise when the other man's meatier hand drove into his solar plexus, all the air leaving his lungs in a _whoosh_ , leaving him stumbling, hacking and gasping for air that he couldn't seem to get.

A solid body collided with his and hands seized his throat, driving him backward. He felt his back slam into the wall as they began to squeeze, blocking off his airway.

He thrashed and struggled, mind reeling, body trying desperately to reclaim oxygen. He clawed at his attacker's hands, already feeling himself weaken, spots starting to blossom in his vision.

A wild flash of rationality hit him, no, you didn't go for the arms, throw your own up through them, force them apart! He wheezed, flailing and trying to replicate the motions he'd imagined, he pushed his arms forward but couldn't seem to get them where they needed to be. In desperation he tried to strike the other's face, but missed pathetically and only manage to hook the edge of their hood, pushing it off.

  
          He stilled. What must it have looked like to an outsider, to see a face contorted in hate and malice suddenly snap to recognition in an instant?

This face... he knew...

It was rounder, heavier than his, a solid jawline, though mostly softened by the other's greater weight, and dotted with stubble. Skin, darker, warm, clearly loved by the sun, there was a patch of startlingly pale white about his left eye, traveling down his cheek and disappearing along his throat into his shirt, the place, where the two pieces met, a mass of scar tissue. Eyes, one a deep brown, the other a startling green. Hair, dark, cool, wavy and unkempt, save for the carefully braided shock of red along his left temple.

The expression, pure murder. Looking at him with a hate that cracked his heart in two even as he didn't understand why.

He knew this man... Who... Who was...?

Darkness crept along the edges of his vision and he could feel himself starting to fade, unable to fight anymore. He distantly, dimly, felt wetness trailing down his cheek. But he couldn't grasp that right now. He just... he needed to...

His hand moved limply to touch the other's face, trailing just the barest line along his cheek, and he foolishly gave up the last of his breath.

“...Grif...?”

  
…

…...

The pressure suddenly eased, though did not disappear, and he was almost deafened by the sound of blood rushing past his ears as he gasped and coughed air back into his lungs. One hand risked releasing him to push his own hood aside.

...

“...Simmons...?”

His vision filtered back in and the face before him was now just as surprised, eyes glinting as it twisted into grief.

“Simmons?” The other asked, pleaded again, voice choking.

“Grif.” He gasped, just before a mouth covered his own.

He kissed back eagerly even though his head still swam.

Grif. This was Grif! It was. And he was Simmons. That was _his_ name. He remembered!

  
          Simmons gasped as warm hands clutched at him, Grif seeming torn about just where he wanted them, he had no such difficulties however and sank his fingers into the other man's thick mane of hair, trying to satisfy the sudden hunger clawing up his insides.

How could he have forgotten? What could have happened to make him forget something as important as being with Grif? The person who was the one constant in his life, a practical law of nature, as irresistible as gravity.

He made an embarrassing and needy sound as his back hit the wall again, with just as much force as before but without the malice, Grif seeming to have made a decision. Simmons' breath hitched and another sound escaped him as heated touches quickly rearranged him, sliding down his sides and slipping behind him to press against the small of his back, making him arch up with a whine, as his partner took advantage and nipped at the juncture of his neck and ear. The hands moved farther gripping his ass, jerking his hips forward, then sliding to his thighs, and Simmons tugged roughly at Grif's hair in retaliation, which earned him a teasing bite to his bottom lip and a thick thigh pressed between his legs, grinding up, hard, against him. Simmons cursed loudly, head falling back.

Under all the heat and frenzy memories returned abruptly and sporadically in splintered, fractured, shards, like bright strands of a spider's web.

  
          He remembered Grif, always there as far back as he could recall. The chubby young boy guarding his little sister, putting up with the scorn and cruelty of other children and disdain from some of the adults. Harassment to his face, comments behind his back, concerning everything from the 'exotic' color of his skin, the sort of upbringing 'those people' had, where he might be from, questions about his parentage.

Some nerve, he'd thought, considering they were all orphans at... Wherever they'd been. He had no context for what he remembered, just that for a good long while they'd been at each others' throats, teasing and bullying one another far past what was excusable and even getting into physical altercations from time to time. Yet no matter how many times he came away in tears or with a bruised body or ego, something about the other boy drew him close and wouldn't let him go.

  
It seemed it hadn't been just him because over time a strange sort of bond had formed, a kindred between two odd and defective children and soon one was almost never seen without the other.

  
          Simmons tenderly ran his lips along the trail of wetness leading up Grif's cheek, the other man rarely cried, so Simmons wouldn't bring it up, but it wouldn't stop him from trying to soothe him. Following it lead to the predominant line of scars separating two shades of skin, and he began to follow that instead, feeling Grif shiver against him at his tender attentions.

  
          He remembered the scars... Something had happened, what that something had been was still lost to him, some sort of accident? He'd agreed to the bargain that they, whoever 'they' were, had presented, letting them tear him apart so that Grif would be saved. He'd have let them do it again, a hundred, a thousand, times because in that moment he'd realized that he couldn't bear to live in a world that didn't have the other man in it.

And really, what did it matter? Being a test subject? He'd always been far too weak, didn't have the innate talent that even Grif, lackadaisical as he was, possessed. So maybe, at least this way, he could pull his own weight and stop being such a burden.

  
          Grif pushed him back, hand wrenching his shirt free from his pants, before darting up under it to kneed and caress his skin, nails scratching lightly at the long scar that Simmons now remembered, a horrid thing that split his chest up the middle, despite that the almost too warm touch made him tremble.

And how many times had he ended up in Grif's arms this way? Surrendering to his touch was so easy, it was as natural as breathing.

  
          Even the first time they were together was like that. The night they'd decided to leave, wherever it was they'd been for nearly all their lives, when Simmons had risked telling Grif the truth, in that painfully vulnerable and delicately fragile moment, where he had pleaded for permission to become his lover. There could be no other option, it was Grif or no one.

He'd burst into tears when the brunette had called him an idiot and said yes.

  
          A whining, needy, sound bubbled up and escaped from Simmons' lips as Grif moved to worry at his throat, nipping and biting softly, he could feel the heat of his breath even through the bandages. Brain foggy with building desire, he registered Grif murmuring words against his neck, hands holding him steady as he trembled and writhed against his larger bulk. There were countless apologies and Simmons tried to convey his forgiveness even as he gripped at Grif's back and whined out his name. There were other words he didn't quite register, but they still sent a bolt of heat down his spine to mingle with the already too tight feeling coiling about his hips.

They became more frenzied, more heated, hands grasping and clutching, mouths warring with each other, hips grinding with increasing desperation.

Unable to take anymore Simmons threw his head back in a wail as the tight feeling inside him broke and bliss washed over him, he clutched Grif tightly to him, feeling like he might fall to pieces if he didn't, and dimly he was aware of Grif trembling against him.

  
          Pulling himself back together always took Simmons longer and honestly he was a little jealous of Grif's ability to remain composed when it came to physical intimacy; before, during, and after. He was still in Grif's lap, arms around his shoulders, human hand having taken to absentmindedly threading fingers through the larger man's thick wavy hair. He liked doing that...

Grif mumbled in quiet appreciation, nuzzling into the juncture of Simmons' shoulder and neck, fingers flexing against the small of the redhead's back as he held him.

After a moment the brunette spoke, "I'm sorry." his voice was mostly calm but sounded slightly choked, "I don't know what I was thinking, I almost..." he trailed off with a hard swallow.

"It's okay." Simmons replied, voice just as quiet as they moved carefully about this dangerous topic, "I wasn't in my right mind either." his nails scratched gently at Grif's scalp, which earned him an appreciative hum, "Something went wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen." he wasn't sure why specifically he knew that other than basic logic, but he had a bone-deep certainty that this wasn't how things were meant to go, "What do you remember?"

"Like in general or..?"

Simmons shrugged, "Just anything really."

Grif hummed, "I remember... You and Kai, but I don't really have any details, just moments with you two in them but nothing um..."

"No context?"

"Yeah." Grif nodded, he sat up more fully, face drawn in concentration, "I remember... Some guy, he was talking about the hunt, said something like he thought we could find what we were looking for? I think I remember getting a-” He snapped his fingers looking for the word, “like he put blood in me?"

Simmons nodded, "A transfusion, yeah I remember that. Maybe the blood was tainted? I had a- I think it was a nightmare."

"Same." Grif confirmed, "Then I woke up here, in some empty room, I couldn't remember anything, I didn't even know my name. I wandered down here and saw that fucking thing." he jerked his head towards the Beast's corpse, dead eyes staring blankly in their direction.

(Simmons covertly flipped it off behind Grif's back.)

"When I saw it..." Grif frowned, "I remember smelling blood and I just..." he pulled one of his hands back to himself, looking down at it as he clenched it so tightly that Simmons could see the tendons pull taught under the normally soft surface, "I kept thinking I wanted to kill it... I wanted to so badly I couldn't think straight. It was like I was, I don't know-"

"Drunk?" Simmons asked.

Grif nodded.

"I think," the redhead wracked his brain for an answer, he had some things back but so much was still blank, "that was a frenzy. We should have been okay but it was like we were pushed all the way back to square one, we didn't know so we didn't even try to fight it."

"It felt really good." Grif admitted, "Until I saw you. Then I got _so_ angry."

Simmons nodded, "So did I. I kept thinking you were going to steal the kill from me. And when it died and I didn't get all of the echoes I just snapped." his face fell, "That should have been my clue, I should have realized it was you when that happened. Kills can be stolen but rewards can't be split among strangers."

"Of course not." Grif cut in, reply quickly and strangely automatic, "That's why we did what we did. 'What's mine is yours and yours is mine' because you're-" the heavier man suddenly realized what he was saying and cut himself off, face turning red, worse on the pale side.

Simmons couldn't stop himself from laughing, "After what literally just happened, _that_ embarrasses you?"

"Hey, shut up!" Grif sputtered, "You know I'm not good with that mushy shit! Besides. You get all flustered when someone even says the word 'sex'."

Simmons coughed in protested surprise. He didn't! It was just that, that sort of thing was private! You didn't talk about it in public! Or so offhandedly while alone!

Grif chuckled, running his knuckles along the length of Simmons' bandaged throat, the redhead leaning appreciatively into the tender touches, "I'm sorry."

"I told you. It's okay."

"Not for that."

"Then for what?"

Grif grinned like a bastard, "For choking you out and then fucking you against a wall."

Simmons felt his face burn and spluttered around his embarrassed outburst, " **Grif**!"

"Made a bit of a mess." Grif pressed, fingers on Simmons' back trailing along the edge of his waistband playfully.

Simmons expression softened to something shyer, "Well, I mean... It's not like anyone will notice... Was kind of a mess already." he gestured to himself, drawing attention to the fact that he was still drenched in the beast's blood. He gestured to Grif's splotched clothes, "Made more a mess of you."

Grif grinned again, ducking in quickly to lick off a smear of blood near Simmons' mouth, "Looks good on you." at Simmons' scandalized grunt he added, "Tastes good on you too." and waggled his eyebrows.

"You're so obscene." Simmons groused, "Why do I feel like you've done this before?"

"Because I have."

The redhead rolled his eyes, "Of course." he then frowned, "In all seriousness Grif, we need to get out of here. I don't know about you but I don't have any weapons and I'm pretty sure the only reason we beat that asshole is because someone else already fucked it up before we got here."

Grif frowned, "Damn, I hate it when you're right." his brow furrowed, "Wasn't there something we're supposed to do if we need to regroup? I swear there is...You're always going on about emergency shit..."

The more Grif talked the more Simmons felt he wasn't just imagining it.

It made sense. If you got stuck or hurt or lost then there had to be a way to get out. People did die on hunts, he knew that with grim certainty, but there were precautions, they'd never have survived this long without some.

The redhead wracked his brain, there must be some clue, some shred of anything to help them. Unless they really were completely screwed... Maybe this had all been sabotaged from the get-go? Or there was no precaution or fail safe? Or he was just too stupid to figure it out-

"Simmons." Grif's voice cut into his increasingly disparaging thoughts, "Baby? Relax. You look like you're gonna pop a blood vessel."

Simmons wilted, "I'm sorry. I can't think of what to do... There has to be something besides just wandering around until something eats us, but I don't know what it is."

"Hey, no big deal." Grif tried to reassure him, "We'll figure something out, even if we just have to hold up here and wait until morning."

Simmons gave him a pathetic and soulful look.

With a soft chuckle, Grif cupped his cheeks, thumbs rubbing light circles against his temples, "Come on, none of that." he chided playfully, "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax. It's fine. We'll figure it out."

Simmons covered Grif's hands with his own, a small smile gracing his lips. With a quiet sigh, he tried to do what Grif had asked, close your eyes, deep breath, and let it go-

His eyes snapped open and he jerked in surprise.

"Simmons?" Grif asked in concern, but the redhead held up a finger. Hold on, one second.

What was that? When he'd closed his eyes he'd thought he'd seen... Something?

Determined he shut them again, after a moment- yes! There was something? What was it?

  
_Dangling, upside-down a rune etched in one's mind._

_"Its the Symbol of a hunter. It is absolutely essential for us in order to do our jobs."_

  
Perhaps but, what was it for? Simmons swayed faintly, the more he tried to bring the image he saw into focus the dizzier he felt.

What was he supposed to do with it?

  
_"By focusing one's thoughts on this rune, a Hunter sacrifices all Blood Echoes, but awakens afresh, as if it were all just a bad dream._

_I expect you all to have this memorized before we meet again tomorrow."_

  
His eyes snapped open with a gasp.

"Grif!" he exclaimed, grinning at his partner's concerned face, "I know what to do!" he beamed, "You were right, there is a way out. I remembered! They made us write that thing so many times, everyone was whining that they were seeing it in their sleep! But that was the point!"

"Wait? Who did?" Grif asked in confusion, lowering his hands, fingers looping with Simmons' instead.

Simmons faltered, "I... Don't know. But I think this is our fail safe! Its how we get out!"

Grif nodded, still confused but now more eager, "Okay! What is it?"

"There's a rune in our heads."

Grif blinked, "I'm sorry, a what?"

"There's a rune, its a symbol. Its called a... 'Hunter's Mark'? We had to memorize it so it's basically in our heads now like by remembering it, it's been 'carved' in there. It's like lucid dreaming. Does that make sense?."

Grif's brow furrowed, "No, but I think I remember... Well, I don't think I paid a whole lot of attention to whoever it was, but I think I remember having to write out something a million times..." he looked at Simmons, "What do we do with it?"

"I think we...um," Simmons looked sheepish, "Think about it?"

Grif gave him a scathingly flat look.

"Don't look at me like that! That's all I've got!"

The brunette shrugged, huffing out a breath, "Well, I guess just thinking about something isn't hard. It's not work. What do we have to lose?" Grif closed his eyes, face scrunching in concentration, "So, I just think about it?" he confirmed.

"Yes," Simmons replied, trying not to second-guess himself. He closed his eyes, trying to bring the mark back. His face furrowed in mild discomfort, his bandaged arm giving a sudden aching throb.

"What does it look like?" Grif asked.

"Descending line, a broken diamond intersecting at the bottom, ending with-"

"A dot." Grif finished.

Good. He got it.

Simmons tried to bring the image into focus, imagined having to write it over and over. The clearer it became the dizzier he felt. He pressed on despite that, it meant it had to be doing something, right?

He felt Grif sway but before he could even open his mouth to ask if he was alright, he was hit with a wave of intense vertigo. For just a second he thought he saw...

  
_\- Small, so very small. - running - get away - if they found him! - almost ran into it - Line descending down. Broken diamond shape. A circle a the bottom - He screamed when he realized what it was-_

Over in an instant, he blacked out, the shape of the rune burning brightly in his mind.

  
*****

  
          "Well well, this is certainly interesting... Whenever the two of you are done acting like a couple of dogs in heat feel free to come in and introduce yourselves." an amused if annoyed voice observed snidely, followed by the sound of something dragging or rolling over dirt and loose gravel.

  
          Simmons blinked the darkness from his eyes. Sure as his memory described, he felt like he'd just woken up, groggy and momentarily out of focus.

He looked up when he heard Grif give an unhappy grumble. Something about not wanting to get up yet.

"Grif?" he asked, voice slightly raspy, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Grif groaned sadly, "feels like I got woken up in the middle of a good nap... I wanna go back to sleep..."

Simmons squawked when Grif tried to burrow back into his chest, giving him a halfhearted rap on the shoulder, "Hey stop that! I think I heard someone when I was waking up. We need to figure out where we are!"

Looking around, he wasn't really sure what to make of it... It was a place he didn't recognize. From where he was seated on the ground it looked like a small courtyard of some sort? The ground beneath them was covered in cobblestones, clearly old and timeworn, some places starting to sink away into the dirt, thick weeds springing up in places, choking what may have once been small gardens. There was an equally old stacked rock wall just to the left of them, too high to see over at the moment, but peeking over the top were glimpses of plants and weeds, the same wild growth that was all over this place, up through the path,, nothing particularly offensive but this place sure wasn't been seen to by any gardener... Leaning back a little he took in the faintly swaying boughs of the several massive trees, the foliage wasn't very thick, perhaps they were sick? Or (more likely) simply just as old as the rest of this place.

He followed the branches of the tallest tree, a twisted titan of a thing, back to the trunk, making a small sound of surprise as he noticed the small (well not really a house... A Shop? A _really_ tiny church?) whatever it was, up a curved length of stacked stone steps. It was made of stone and brink, only a few small windows, an old Gothic sort of thing. The redhead thought he could see light coming from inside. But it was hard to tell... The light here was... weird. Not really day. Not night though. No rosy light to denote dawn or dusk, just a cool gray... made worse by the light fog that settled over everything... Made the place feel like it wasn't real.

He was leaning to try and peer over the closest wall when Grif huffed, finally sitting up properly and looking about, “So where exactly are-” he paused, "Huh, who's that lady over there? She's kind of staring at us..."

Head whipping around fast enough to break one's neck, Simmons stared in wide-eyed horror at the figure.

It was indeed a woman, seated against the larger rock wall that held back the hill the house was on, in the middle of what once might have been a small garden just out of his initial line of sight. She sat slightly slumped, hands folded neatly in her lap, her form lit up by a small lantern set on the corner of the wall, and was staring right at them.

The redhead scrambled up, out of Grif's lap, ignoring the only slightly sincere sound of disappointment from the other man, "I- shit! I'm so sorry! We weren't trying to-! It was an accident! A-are you the Master of this Hunt?" his hands went immediately to his clothes, wiping in vain to try and get rid of all the...blood? Oh... It was gone, his clothes were as pristine as they'd been when he'd first woken up... Was that supposed to happen? He looked up again, having further humiliated himself.

The woman said nothing, continuing to stare blankly at them.

He heard Grif get up behind him, "Uh, is she _dead_?"

Simmons paled and carefully moved closer, "Ma'am?" if she was dead, then what did that mean? "Hello?"

Hesitantly he bent down, peering into her face. He raised a cautious hand as if to touch her but froze sharply before he could.

"Simmons?" Grif called worriedly, creeping closer with a slow shuffle, "Hey? Is everything okay?"

No reply.

A little closer.

"Richard?" the heavier man asked timidity, he reached out preparing to shake him.

Something seized his wrist! "Grif! It's-!"

Grif shrieked!

  
Simmons burst out laughing.

The heavier man stared in panic down at his wrist, face shifting to embarrassed anger as he registered not only the laughter but that the grip was simply Simmons' gloved hand. His cheeks turned red and he pulled his hand free, giving his partner a good hard punch to the shoulder, which staggered him but didn't stop the snickering.

"Not funny." Grif sulked.

"I'm sorry," Simmons chuckled, calming his laughter, "the opportunity was too good."

The other man snorted, "Doesn't seem very respectful. Didn't peg you as someone who'd make a joke out of a **corpse**."

Simmons took a deep breath but still laughed one more time, "It's not a corpse." he said matter-of-factually, "It's a doll."

Grif blinked, "A human-sized doll?"

Simmons nodded, eyes returning to the odd thing as Grif moved forward to get a better look at it.

She was... Kind of plain really if he thought about it. Of course, Simmons had never owned a doll (at least not that he remembered) so he didn't have anything really to compare it to other than things he'd seen in shop windows. The one in front of him was at least human-sized, though exactly how tall was hard to say because she wasn't standing up. While not elaborate or fancy she was spectacularly well crafted, with an attention to detail that had to have bordered on the obsessive for whoever made her.

“The fuck?” he heard Grif mutter, “Why would you even have something like this? What's it even for? It's so... _weird_.”

Yeah, it really was...

The dolls' 'skin' was strikingly pale, almost paper white but had the faintest hint of color about her cheeks and lips that made one expect to feel warmth if they touched them. Her hair was hidden slightly by a heavy, black, cotton bonnet, adorned with a small cluster of faded white roses near the base surrounding the bow of a loosely tied silken sash. What hair he did see was a blonde that bordered on gray or white, it looked so soft as it framed her face that he wondered if it was actual human hair. Her eyes too were as startlingly pale as the rest of her, a blue that bordered on white and seemed to look right into you despite clearly having been fashioned from glass. Again all together it really did look like a real honest to god human woman.

Her dress wasn't anything spectacular either, all black save for the silk scarf around her neck, which was a faded but surely once brilliant blue color. About her shoulders was a long cape, or perhaps a shawl? It was heavily woven and bore a pattern of lattices and flowers at the edges where it turned into fringe. She wore a delicate but simple black vest over a white lace shirt, and a long black cotton skirt and her feet were clad in soft leather boots.

Really the only thing that _didn't_ look lifelike were her hands, which was weird given the maddening level of detail she bore. Her hands were covered with laced gloves but they only covered the palm and back, so you could easily see the segmented joints of her fragile porcelain fingers.

He started a little when he thought he saw one of them begin tapping, very slight very subtle, as though annoyed, ' _Well? I'm waiting?_ '.

Of course, that didn't happen because that would be creepy...er

  
          Backing away from the weird thing Simmons finally took in the entirety of the area.

As he'd thought before it looked like they were in the small courtyard before this small yet oddly imposing house. Actually, the yard looked bigger than the house itself, so maybe it was an attempt at a display of wealth and power? Or maybe it was just to look nice?

It did look nice actually, in a kind of rundown sort of way, it had... charm? The rock walls he'd observed before cradled little gardens, short iron fences, bushes, small clutches of grasses and flowers. All overgrown with wild plants and ivy but in an almost purposeful way. The only things of particular note up here were a series of stone monuments, they looked almost like grave markers, some better cared for, others threatening to crumble, elaborately designed and lovingly carved, only there were no names on them. They flanked each side of the courtyard, forming a kind of broken ovoid circle.

Were they graves? There didn't seem to be enough room between them and the edges of the walls to put a person in them. Plus they were unmarked. So they must serve some other purpose...

  
          “Holy...” he heard Grif start, the heavier man having wandered down a bit down the path leading away from the house, presumably to see what else there was or where it might go. “Um, Simmons? You might want to come see this...”

The redhead quickly followed his voice and scampered down the path, finding Grif a short way down around the corner, standing by a tall iron gate that guarded the entrance to a large field covered in delicate, little white flowers, so pale they seemed to glow.

Simmons paused, “That is pretty breathtaking but I don't understand-”

“No no, not that,” Grif chided, “ _THIS_.” He grabbed Simmons' shoulder, guiding him to a slight gap in the tall rock wall, gesturing for him to look through, “What the fuck is this?”

The taller man gasped when he did so, “What the hell...”

The space beyond the wall was... gray, just gray. Fluffy and wet like fog, blending together with the sky until it seemed that was just all it was, he thought perhaps there might be water beneath the mist, like some massive yet still sea, but he couldn't tell. There were... Pillars? Tree trunks? Massive, bigger than anything he'd ever seen, stretching higher and higher, up and up, until they vanished into the fog. They seemed miles away, scattered here and there, back and back until they could no longer be seen.

Simmons braced himself and pushed up to look over the wall properly. Still the same, all the way around in every direction, no change, nothing else. Speechless he looked at Grif in worry. How could they have missed this? What was this?!

“The path ends right over there,” Grif gestured a little past the gate, “And there's a wall around whatever this is,” He gestured to the gated off garden, “There's nowhere else to go. This is it.” he emphasized in clear worry.

“I guess that just leaves the house...” Simmons replied, starting slowly back the way they came, trying not to panic, “I don't know where else to look...” he admitted, “I don't know what's going on... I feel like I should but...”

“Its okay,” it really wasn't but he appreciated the sentiment, “We'll figure something out. I mean, this is where we were supposed to go right? So there has to be something here and some way to leave. We got in after all.”

The lanky man nodded, stopping just short of the stairs leading to the house. Hopefully, there would be answers here. Something, anything, to fill in these unsettling gaps in his head...

"Think anyone is in there?" Grif asked, moving to stand beside him.

"I think so. I mean, if they aren't there I have no idea who I heard."

Grif shrugged, so easily throwing off his unease from just moments before, starting up the dilapidated stone steps, "Worth a look then I guess."

Simmons followed after him.

*****

          The inside of the building wasn't really any better off than the outside.

To say it was in disrepair might have been a bit overdramatic, but whoever was taking care of it was doing a barely passable job. It was just one room, though from the outside Simmons could have sworn it had to have had more than one... But no, it was just one large space, walls made of plaster with beveled rectangular panels along the top, breaking in places to make space for nooks or shelves. The floor was just boards... maybe? The majority of it was hidden under a thick, and slightly tacky, blue carpet, covered in a Victorian style floral design. There were a great many bookcases against the walls, overburdened and haphazardly stocked... actually there were a lot of books in here in general, just sort of stacked wherever there was room on the floor, bits of paper scattered and shoved here and there, dusty and yellowed...

Simmons' fingers twitched with a desire to organize it all, save these undoubtedly precious tomes from the cruel person or persons who had left them this way!

There were a few things in the room besides that. To his immediate right, past where Grif was standing, was a large trunk or chest of some sort. It was placed dangerously close to a stone fireplace, and yes it was lit, it was a real wonder the heat hadn't damaged the soft dark leather or warped the metal fastenings. On the other side of the fireplace was a curious workbench, drawers partially jammed open by an overabundance of parts and papers, small tools placed in places they probably were not meant to be or just laying on the surface, beakers, and tubes were shoved to one side, bottles of chemicals crammed unceremoniously along the space beneath it, also dangerously close to the fire. All of it under the gaze of a series of old, disassembled, and probably rusted, but no less merciless looking, weapons, reduced to hanging on the wall in lieu of someone to properly care for them all this time.

His fingers twitched again.

The last thing of note was by far the oddest. A... Table? Maybe? In the back of the room, four solid sides of stone and a flat top, set against a low rise and flanked on either side by stone steps, one set of which had another ratty blue rug tossed over it. Behind it were a few carved wooden pillars that were probably purely decorative but created a kind of alcove flanked by parted, heavy, curtains. Add in the _absurd_ number of candles stacked on top of the odd possibly table, and it all had more the appearance of an altar or a tomb of some kind.

Weird.

But that was not quite all. At the center of the whole odd mess was a man in a wheelchair, who, with an almost annoyed groan from the wheels, turned to face them.

His clothes were on the shabby side, a coat that Simmons was pretty sure was actually white and was just so smeared with soot and dirt and gods knew what else that it was now just a dingy mess, slacks in a similar state, peeking out from under a woolen blanket, a sliver of a gentleman's vest and dress shirt seen under the coat, worn cloth gloves, a scarf, and a squashed top hat.

The face, he recognized it, from the odd vision he'd had, which he now suspected had been real and not a dream. At a glance the man looked not much older than himself, (yet he still wanted to call him 'the old man') his face was not as thin as his, but one of strong bone structure, skin not quite as pale as his own, shoulder-length black hair, not greasy or matted, but unkempt and shaggy. His eyes were hidden under the brim of his hat and he seemed to purposely turn away when Simmons tried to see under it.

He appeared to regard them with amusement but didn't say anything.

What was he waiting for-?

Oh!

Simmons cleared his throat, "Hello, I'm- um, I'm Richard Simmons." he bowed politely, “I think we might have already met?”

The (old) man turned to regard Grif and after an awkward moment the heavier man blinked and finally introduced himself, "Oh, uh, Dexter Grif."

The man nodded, "Ah-hah, you must be the new hunters. Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now." he began with practiced ease, "I am... Church, friend to you hunters."

Simmons nodded, "I don't mean to sound rude, Church, but, I think something's gone wrong. We woke up alone and there are large chunks of our memories missing. What happened?"

Church hummed, "Seems so... You're not the first to come here with that complaint. The others recovered fairly quickly." he laughed, "I'm sure you're in a fine haze about now, but don't think too hard about all of this. Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it's just what hunters do! You get used to it..."

Simmons blinked, "Oh, okay...?" Guess he really wanted to finish that speech?

Grif took a half step forward, his face belying frustration at the flippant attitude and partial rambling of their host, "Okay, then what's this place?"

The disabled (was he? Must be with the chair and all...) man huffed, as though Grif were a massive idiot, "This was once a safe haven for hunters! A workshop where hunters used blood to enhance their weapons and _flesh_." he waved his hand in a dismissive manner, "We don't have as many tools as we once did, and you're a little late to the party, but... You're welcome to use whatever you find." he paused and grinned wickedly, leaning forward and raising his hand to his mouth conspiratorially, and whispered, "...Even the doll, should it please you..."

Grif blinked and backed away leaning over to hiss in Simmons' ear as Church began to wheel himself away, cackling like a loon, "Did he just tell us to fuck that creepy doll thing?"

Simmons gaped at him, "No!" he whisper-shouted back, "Why would he do that? He must mean something else!"

The look he got in reply told him he hadn't been believed.

Whatever.

"Wait!" he called out after Church, "You said there were tools we could use, but, what about weapons? We don't have any."

The other man turned to look over his shoulder and the red-haired hunter thought he caught a glimpse of a tired, yet startlingly, unnaturally, blue eye, "I can't help you with that. They probably can though." he pointed behind them, "Looks like your Messengers finally found you. Poor things. How sad..."

With that, he resumed wheeling himself away.

  
Oh, well, okay then...

  
Feeling a firm attention seeking tap on his shoulder, Simmons turned back to Grif, who was looking pointedly at something on the floor. He followed his gaze and blinked in surprise.

At their feet were two small clusters of the same pale childlike creatures from, well guess it wasn't a dream (was hallucination any better?), one in front of each of them, bodies appearing to end at the floorboards, materializing almost from a kind of mist or fog that glittered like the night sky.

They clamored over one another and though they did not have any expression or make any audible sound, he fancied that he more... _Felt_? A chorus of joyous chatter from them. The Messengers? Yes. The Messengers seemed preoccupied for the moment with touching their tiny little hands to his boots and the hem of his pants. He saw one on Grif's side press it's little blob of a head against the other man's leg, as though in reverence.

Huh... That was weird?

To his surprise, Grif dropped down carefully on one knee to get a closer look at them, his little gaggle hurrying out of the way before swarming back, happily clutching his sleeve like excited children.

"Hey," Grif began, catching his attention, "I think I actually remember these guys... They always show up during hunts don't they?" he titled his head, "You're here to help us out, aren't you little guys?" he asked playfully, giving one a careful prod to the head, which seemed to delight it.

" _These small creatures have crept out of a nightmare_ ," Simmons suddenly found himself reciting, " _and while they may not look too friendly, they accompany hunters, follow their orders, and take care of messages left for others_."

Grif raised an eyebrow, "I recognize that. You memorized that whole lecture! I remember!" he laughed, "You read it out loud over and over from your notes, all night, in our room and you wouldn't stop until I sat on you and buried your head under a pillow."

Simmons laughed awkwardly, embarrassed, "I wish I could remember where that room was. Or anything really, besides just spouting off information like a sentient textbook..."

"You can be our exposition fairy." Grif teased, turning back to the Messengers, "You guys have our stuff? Weapons? Something to help us out?"

There was an ecstatic flurry of gestures by little limbs as Grif's gaggle of Messengers dissipated back into the mists they'd come out of. Feeling a silent query in the back of his mind Simmons nodded to his own group who likewise skittered off in hopes of pleasing him.

  
          Within a scant few seconds, the groups returned, numerous little hands holding up several bundles of varying size and odd shape.

Grif picked up the largest bundle first, about the length of his arm and half the span, grunting as he realized how heavy it was. He tugged off the white shroud letting it fall wherever it wanted, and hefted up the rather sizable Ax that had been revealed, to get a better look at it.

Simmons watched in fascination as Grif shifted the thing about in his hands, as though remembering or perhaps relearning the object.

It had a thick, heavy, curved blade, attached to a savage looking pike, strapped on with multiple cords and leather twining. The shaft seemed to have similar treatment, wood wrapped repeatedly with the same, cords, leather and cloth, with an odd metal ring about three-fourths of the way down.

Somehow, he knew the wood was just plating, that the whole of the inside was metal. But why? And what was that notch for-?

Grif's eyes suddenly lit up in realization and Simmons jumped back a step as he suddenly swung the thing out, something inside clicked and the shaft slid out double its length and the Ax transformed into a vicious Halberd.

Grif grinned, "Hello you sexy thing." he purred, and honestly? Simmons couldn't deny that he painted a very... appealing, picture.

  
          Trying to ignore the blush he could feel heating his cheeks he turned to his own Messengers, bending down to take the thin parcel they offered.

It was... A cane?

It was well worn, and felt familiar in his hands, aged metal the whole way up, a leather grip near the base, a nice sturdy handle under that, and all the way back down at the bottom an almost ornamental point made of much darker metal, sharper than any arrow, stronger than steel, highly resistant to dulling when used as a cane.

It was the weakest of hunter weapons, almost ceremonial, ritualistic, in its use... He'd been told that. But he'd needed it... He'd gotten tired so easily, had to lean on it and use it as an actual cane and not a sword...

Ironic.

Moving back a pace or two he gave a couple good swings, amazing how easily the body relearned what the mind had forgotten. It felt good in his hand, and he instinctively felt out the hidden switch just above the grip.

With a silent click the blade segmented cleanly, each of the pieces sliding along sturdily woven metal cable as he swung the now whip above him in a smooth curve, cracking it against a bare patch of floor, sweeping it about himself and letting it slide back into a blade, slamming the point on the floor to lock it again.

_"Flogging the beasts with the whip is partly an act of ceremony, an attempt to demonstrate to oneself that the bloodlust of the hunt will never encroach upon the soul."_

He wished he knew who that gruff voice in his memory belonged to. Who had taught him these things? Who had taken pity on such a sad broken thing that no one else could be bothered with?

  
          A sort of low sound pulled his gaze back to Grif, who seemed to have been in the process of strapping a pistol of some kind to his belt, he was staring intently at him and there was a light flush to his cheeks.

The redhead felt his own face heat up and less than a moment later Grif had cleared the gap between them, hand slipping to the small of his back, pulling him flush to his body. Despite being the taller of the two Simmons felt small and vulnerable under Grif's hungry intensity.

Leaning up until their lips were almost touching Grif murmured, "If that crazy asshole wasn't right outside..." Simmons could feel him grin, "Well, let's just say I remembered a few interesting things... Like that Hunters are supposed to have _inhuman_ amounts of stamina..."

With a parting teasing nip to his bottom lip, Grif let him go and stalked back over to his things, murmuring something about there being plenty of time later, leaving a frazzled ball of flustered Hunter behind him.

Trying to pull himself back together, said Hunter returned to his own gear.

  
          It seemed he had a pistol too, flintlock by the look of it, the barrel had been ornately engraved, with a mass of entwining knotted lines, even over the firing mechanism, all the way to the wooden handle, which was wrapped in obviously old strips of cloth.

A pair of the little creatures handed him a belt next, small satchels attached to it, and what looked like a couple small clips or points where weapons could be hung.

He took it carefully, "Thank you." he told them softly, sensing their gleeful chatter at having been of use.

He checked the pouches, only two had anything in them.

One had a handful of small gleaming bullets.

He pulled one out and looked it over. It was long and thin coming to a sharp piercing point, the body had a swirling pattern of lines curling about it. It seemed almost fluid in a way and he swore he saw glints of brilliant crimson among the tight spirals.

_"Ordinary bullets have no effect on beasts, you'll need Quicksilver Bullets, fused with your own blood, or you'll never even pierce their hide."_

The process was there, hazy, but he could do it, make more if they needed them. Weapons were most effective, but firearms had their uses.

The other full pouch contained numerous small glass vials, their obvious, red, contents visible through it, a cap on one end. A quick examination revealed that the stopper split near the base, an injection needle hidden underneath.

_For emergencies._

He recalled how he'd felt when he'd been doused in the Wolf's blood, how quickly his wounds had healed. That must be what this was for, you injected yourself if you were badly hurt.

_Or you can just break them in your hand like Grif does. Doesn't matter if it's faster it's still stupid._

As he was about to right himself and put the belt on there was a light tap on his knee. Glancing towards it he was faced with one of his Messengers, holding up a small worn notebook.

He took it.

Before he could even thank them the little throng of creatures faded away into the ground, a quickly dispersing mist the only evidence they'd even been there.

"What's that?" Grif asked, leaning over to look.

"A notebook."

Grif gave him a flat 'no shit' look.

"I don't know what it is!" Simmons shot back defensively, "They gave it to me and took off!"

"Well, let's look then." Grif prodded, "Could be important?"

Simmons snorted, "You're just curious." but opened the book at Grif's insistence.

He squawked and made a quick catch when a pencil and a dip pen came tumbling out. With a nervous laugh he looked inside the book only to have his brow furrow in confusion, flipping forward a few pages, then a few back.

"There's nothing in here." he murmured.

"Maybe it's just for taking notes?"Grif ventured, "You like notes right?"

Simmons flushed, "There's nothing wrong with notes. I just thought there'd be something in here already..."

Grif hummed, "What about in the front? That's the middle isn't it?"

That was true. Simmons flipped quickly to the front of the book, he'd just been really sure...

Oh! There was something in the front!

It seemed to be detailed notes and instructions (which Simmons immediately knew were written in his own handwriting) on the construction of the Quicksilver rounds, the best way to create Blood Vials... On that page there was a small note pinned, from some unknown sender, claiming there was something 'different' about the blood of the people in Yharnam, and that many of its residents were addicted to Blood ministrations.

Church had said similar before he'd given him a transfusion hadn't he?

Filing that away to ponder over later, the lanky Hunter continued reading.

There were a couple of quick notes on the care of weapons, which was where he noticed something odd. There were large gaps in the text, half words and some faded not quite readable...

There was supposed to be more here!

Was it missing because he didn't remember it? Was that something that could happen?

His eyes dropped to his sword, then over to Grif's Ax, the only legible entries on the page.

"Grif?" he asked, "Was that your first weapon? That Ax?"

The heavier man looked confused for a moment, "I... Think- yeah, it was..."

"What other weapons do you know how to use?"

Grif opened his mouth, then shut it, brow furrowing in intense concentration, after a moment he shook his head, "I don't know."

"Shit..." Simmons breathed, "I think the Messengers gave us these because we can't remember anything more recent... They can't find them because we don't know where they are." he pondered, "Maybe that's why they brought me my notebook..."

He flipped through the pages again, the book was well worn, obviously old, there was no way he hadn't filled it up...

His fingers caught on a page and a slip of parchment fluttered out onto the floor.

He picked it up.

It was a drawing, masterfully done, in graphite and charcoal. It depicted himself and a young woman, sitting on a vague suggestion of a brick wall. The girl was heavyset, long curly hair, a bright smile that spoke of amusement, and maybe a little annoyance at having to sit still. He looked a bit awkward but still smiling at the viewer.

"Kai..." Grif said quietly, looking down at the image.

"You drew this..." Simmons whispered, "Kai wanted one, she drove you nuts until you drew it. She wanted one of the two of you. She didn't like it when you told her how long it would take to do that... But you did."

He heard Grif take a shaky breath as the other Hunter's fingers traced the edge of the paper in his hand, "Took for fucking ever... This was just a rough sketch that I cleaned up. I gave her the finished one. Told you to hold on to this because I knew I'd fucking lose it..." his voice choked.

He was already rubbing his eyes by the time Simmons had turned around.

The darker skinned man gestured to the paper, "Keep that safe." he swallowed, looking a bit embarrassed he added, "You remembered it even with all this shit, so... Keep doing that."

Simmons nodded as Grif busied himself with a final gear check. This must be really bothering him... He was glad he hadn't forgotten the sketch, even if it was just unconscious. Kai meant so much to Grif, not having such an important memento was like...

"You ready?" his partner asked abruptly, Simmons nodded quickly, clasping the book shut, safe, inside a satchel, "Good, that Church asshole said we'd get our memories back if we killed some shit. Let's go do our jobs, so I can kick his ass later."

"Grif that's not really fair-"

"You watch," the heavy Hunter retorted, "we'll have to beat up a guy in a wheelchair, I guarantee it."

Simmons let it go with a sigh, following Grif out the door and back down the stairs, trying to ignore what Church had said about the doll and the fact that he couldn't shake the feeling that it was looking at him...

 

*****

  
          "Okay little buddies!" Grif called out when they'd reached the small courtyard, "You guys know what we're supposed to be doing! How do we get out of here?"

Almost immediately a little huddle of Messengers popped up around one of the far stone altar, grave marker, looking, things, it was odd but, Simmons had the distinct impression that a few of them were his. Weird how he just could kind of tell...

The little figures, clamored silently, some patting their hands on the surface, others bowing in a sort of mock prayer.

Interesting way to give instructions.

  
          As Simmons was about to approach the slab there was a gentle touch on his arm.

"Hold on." in contrast to his gruff almost anger before Grif sounded... Deflated? No, that wasn't quite it...

Turning to look, he watched as Grif patted around his pockets, finally pulling out a slightly rumpled, silken, ebony ribbon, "Turn around." the other man ordered with appropriate gesture.

Simmons compiled and was only mildly surprised when seconds later thick fingers gently carded through his absurd curls, doing the best they could to tame it and pull it back behind his head.

He shivered slightly at the pleasant tingling and tender warmth the attention caused. As Grif fussed with his hair, beginning the first loops of a tight braid, Simmons recalled the times he'd seen the other man helping his sister with her own wild hair when they were little.

It's the reason I decided to grow it out... They said long hair was gentlemanly but that's not why. What I wanted was...

  
          Unfortunately, the experience was shorter than he would have liked, Grif did only the first few loops before tying it off tightly, “You fight like shit with your hair in your face... I'll do it better later, sorry.” Grif's hands lingered almost hesitantly on his shoulders before pulling away and Simmons was struck a second time with a sorrowful pain in his chest.

He turned quickly, before his self-conscious nature made him change his mind, and pulled Grif into a tight hug. There was a moment's hesitation before Grif's own arms were around him, just as tight.

They were pretty bad at these displays of affection, weren't they? Especially with other people potentially around...But...If he knew that something was wrong, then no matter how flustered it made him he should do something, right? He didn't deserve to be with Grif if he didn't.

The redhead nuzzled his lover's cheek, “I love you...” he said softly, feeling Grif's hold tighten at the words, as though scared to let him go.

“I...” Grif struggled and cursed softly, “I forgot about that drawing...Before, I almost- I just thought...”

What else did I forget?

He'd been trying not to dwell on that either.

“I remember you,” Simmons replied after a moment, “and Kai. You remember her and me.” he pulled back enough to kiss Grif briefly, “I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me.” he blinked back his own fretful emotions, “I'm going to be the biggest pain in the ass. You're going to hate it.”

Grif smiled and for a moment his expression melted into something so soft and warm that Simmons tried desperately to burn its image into his mind forever, “I'll hold you to that.”

Reluctantly they parted but, much to Simmons' surprise and (albeit flustered) delight, Grif's hand slipped down and entwined with his.

Moving over to the slab their weird little minions still eagerly beckoned them to, Grif took a deep breath and then dropped to one knee, Simmons following suit, and held up his palm to it, mimicking the gestures of the Messengers, Simmons did likewise.

Grif grinned at him as a soft, golden, dawn like light gathered about them.

“Let's go hunt some beasts!”

  
And then they woke up.

 

 

BONUS! 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a long one! Hopefully you all enjoyed our first real taste of the world of Bloodborne! 
> 
> As always I'd love to know what you guys though! Your feedback is super helpful and gives me creative fuel! All the artwork for this series as well as all my other stuff can be found on my tumblr! Here--> http://cc-sketchbook.tumblr.com
> 
> See you guys next time! ~ Much love, CC

**Author's Note:**

> Even though it was a bit short I hope you enjoyed the prologue! 
> 
> As always I'd love to know what you guys though! Your feedback is super helpful and gives me creative fuel! All the artwork for this series as well as all my other stuff can be found on my tumblr! Here--> http://cc-sketchbook.tumblr.com 
> 
> See you guys next time! ~ Much love, CC


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